


These are a few of my favorite things

by StarberryCupcake



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Drama & Romance, F/M, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Multi, Other, Self Confidence Issues, chetta is an amputee so there are mentions of ableism and other sensitive topics, fatphobic situation displayed, mentions of depression, mentions of gender dysphoria body dysmorphia, non binary enjolras, non binary feuilly, non binary jehan, there's love and frienship and harry potter references, trans woman bahorel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-18
Updated: 2015-04-18
Packaged: 2018-03-23 13:57:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3770809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarberryCupcake/pseuds/StarberryCupcake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Grantaire appreciates children-book-related puns, Jehan has strong opinions over artistic renditions of literary characters, Courfeyrac loves Harry Potter but loves his friends more, Cosette and Bahorel face bullying in a clothes shop that isn't size-inclusive, Éponine looks for a symbol of independence, Feuilly doesn't want to lose the connection to xyr past, Musichetta starts her life with her new leg, Combeferre isn't perfect, Joly knits to cope with his anxiety, Bahorel finds inspiration in her mom, Bossuet meets his two loves, Marius tries to avoid pontmercying his first date and Enjolras discloses eir feelings. Thirteen episodes of this group of friends, their favorite garments and why they're so important to them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	These are a few of my favorite things

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ibbyliv](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ibbyliv/gifts).



> This is a stand-alone fic but occurs in the same AU as the fic [My Body is Home](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3510455), in which Cosette's and Éponine's relationship and feelings towards their bodies are better explained. You can read this one on its own, though, if that's what you want. I apologize in advance if any of the topics are not well-developed or if I made mistakes in the way I treated them. I tried to internalize myself in those topics I am less knowledgeable of, but I'm still learning, so point out mistakes and call me out on my errors, if you see them. Please.  
> This is a very late birthday gift for [Ibbyliv](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ibbyliv). I hope this makes you happy, I tried including things I thought you would appreciate and I really wish you the best because you're wonderful and I'm so happy I got to meet you ♥  
> The title of this fic is from The Sound of Music.

For Grantaire, it was a t-shirt. A t-shirt he bought online, paid an unreasonable amount of money for (re-sellers, damn them) but it was for a good cause. An excellent cause. The best cause.

To piss Enjolras off.

They very often got carried away in arguments that resulted in the same clichéd resolution: Enjolras pleaded him to be serious, to what Grantaire always answered with “I am wild”. The first time, it was clever, the second, it was funny, the third it was just on purpose. Because it pissed em off.

Enjolras knew he would answer that, ey knew well, yet the phrase escaped eir lips without em being able to stop it, whenever their discussions dragged for too long.

In all reality, Grantaire didn't fully say it to anger em. He felt it had become, in some instances, the way to stop. Enjolras said eir part, Grantaire answered in tow and the discussion dissolved into a sigh and a grunt (respectively). It was a way to put an end to their bickering without it escalating towards some place dangerous for both. And Grantaire saw it as such and respected it, no matter what.

He ignored, though, whether Enjolras saw it as such too, but, as long as it worked, he was going to keep repeating it.

The t-shirt, on the other hand, was a bonus. And a 50-50 chance bonus, at that. Enjolras could either consider it charmingly funny (in which case, Grantaire would feel accomplished) or ey would think it going too far with the joke (in which case, Grantaire would have to avoid the Musain for weeks). Good thing he had back-up bars.

He entered the meeting late enough for everyone to be there, yet not enough for the triumvirate to have reached an important point. He wanted to interrupt, but he wasn't a complete asshole, mind you. An endearing asshole, maybe. Louison, the cook, had called him that one time and Grantaire thought it could be a good idea for a tattoo. Or a t-shirt. Not as cool as the one he was sporting when he entered the Musain, though.

His eyes were fixed on Enjolras when he approached the group, to greet them all with a particularly exaggerated sweetness. He saw em scowling and about to use eir gorgeous lips (not that Grantaire stared at those too much, though, it was just an objective observation) to call him off, when ey stopped abruptly before anything escaped eir mouth. Eir eyes went from Grantaire’s face to his shirt and back up.

“You’re unbelievable” ey said, but didn't sigh, as Grantaire had expected.

Ey laughed. A musical, tingling laughter. A Tinker Bell laughter. Go figure.

“Sit down, Max” Enjolras said, smirking.

And Grantaire knew, from that moment on, that his brand new _Where The Wild Things Are_ illustrated t-shirt was going to be his favorite.

* * *

Everyone would have thought that it would be difficult for Jehan to choose one garment. After all, zie had an abnormal amount of clothing, of every kind of fashion trend you could imagine. Punk jackets, 60s floral tunics, Goth boots, cyberpunk neon necklaces, soft grunge cardigans, hipster crop tops, Decora hair-clips, Steampunk hats…everything that wasn't plain and simple, Jehan wore.

Some people throughout zir life had considered it indecisive of zir part. They believed it had to do with zir not being able to decide which trend zie belonged to and having a passive, submissive personality that absorbed everyone zie saw. But, if that were true and Jehan was there to follow other people’s footsteps to find conformity, zie wouldn't stand in the middle of the street with bear sneakers, floral tights, batik shorts, a Marvel jersey and a coffin backpack.

Other people had mentioned zir gender identity. Zir family thought it came with the choice: if zie wasn't either male or female, zie couldn't follow a certain fashion trend. Which had a million and a half flaws as an argument. Jehan had patiently explained how gender identity wasn't about “picking” and it also wasn't about “two sides” and how fashion was not gendered, how social constructions of gender roles had falsely imposed fashion trends with determinations that were so subjective to a social and historical context that they didn't even last a century. Zie explained how identifying as non-binary had nothing to do with an impossibility but with a possibility, a freedom of identification and self-recognition. And zie knew they wanted to understand. It just wasn't the time. It was never the time.

Zir friends, though, were delighted. It made it easier for them to find zir gifts and it allowed them to use Jehan’s apartment like a store, trying out and looking at things they had never seen before or had only seen in pictures. They understood that Jehan felt zie was like a quilt, seamlessly sewn with different patchworks that made zir a unique person, capable of, some days, being everything at once and, some others, nothing at all. And they understood and embraced both parts.

One of the bad days, the afternoon caught zir sighing Shakespeare quotes to the open sky. Zie was lying on the grass while zir friends were gathered further ahead, and the clouds were, yet again, zir companions and confidants.

“ _When down her weedy trophies and herself/Fell in the weeping brook. Her clothes spread wide; /And, mermaid-like, awhile they bore her up_ ” zie murmured to the everything (nothingness?) above zir.

“ _Incapable of her own distress_ ” Courfeyrac’s voice traveled to zir as a ray of light, piercing through the darkness “I always found that description rather terrifying more than poetic”

Jehan smiled.

“You would” zie didn't sit up to face him better, zie didn't feel quite ready to move.

But zie didn't have to, because Courfeyrac laid beside zir on the grass, a respectful distance between them. Zie could still feel his warmth; Courfeyrac’s warmth was always loud, was always overflowing. He was made of warmth and light.

“Do you like the Millais's painting of her?” Courfeyrac asked.

Jehan sometimes got surprised by how knowledgeable Courfeyrac could be of things that didn't seem his area of expertise. But then zie remembered he learned listening to them. Because he cared. He cared _so_ much.

“I love it” Jehan responded “Though I’m sure you don’t”

“Sorry” Courfeyrac apologized, and Jehan turned on zir back to face him.

“Don’t” zie smiled “Just tell me why”

“But you already knew I…”

“Just tell me”

Courfeyrac stayed put, thinking. Contemplating. His brow furrowed in concentration and his nose scrunched as it did when he was debating whether to say something or not. Jehan could write an ode to that movement alone. It conveyed so much.

“It’s just…her expression is so…vacant” Courfeyrac shrugged “In such a beautiful place, she’s losing her life and it’s so sad to see it perpetually happen…like it’s stuck in a moment in which you can’t save her…she’s dying forever”

“I think that’s what I love about it” Jehan turned back to look at the sky again “Not that she is dying per se but how Millais could capture the instant between life and death” zie spread zir arms to the sky and gestured, as if the clouds were asking zir to explain, just like Courfeyrac was “In such a beautiful place, surrounded by so much life, she is decaying. It’s not just about death, it’s about life and death together, the junction of the two, and I think there’s something relieving when you can see that you’re part of a bigger universe and your own sorrows are just a tiny speck of dust inside something so massive.”

There was silence then, only interrupted by the cheers and laughter of their friends, which were carried to them through the wind. Jehan closed zir eyes and hoped zie could capture it forever in zir memory.

“Sometimes, I feel it’s like I've been living in a fog” Courfeyrac’s voice cut through the future memory, placing itself into it, over it, claiming the moment without intending so “and being with you dissipates it”

Jehan’s arms fell to zir sides and zir eyes opened in surprise. Zie turned and was encountered with Courfeyrac’s smile. Not the smile he had when he was purposefully charming. Not the smile he faked when he had to behave with people he didn't respect. Not the mischievous smirk he sported when he was concocting a plan. It was the easy, loving smile he used when Joly wasn't feeling well. The one he sported when Marius asked him if he could stay the night because his grandfather was being dreadful. The one he had when Combeferre was stressed out for so much work or Enjolras was burying emself in responsibilities. The same smile he used when his friends needed him, yet different. Stronger. Focused.

None of them brought it up in the following weeks. There was much to do, after all, there was no time to reminiscence the little moments, even if, to Jehan, they were everything sometimes. But one afternoon, he came with a package. A present. For Jehan. It wasn’t zir birthday, or a present-requiring holiday of any kind, yet there it was. And when zie opened it, zie felt it was a holiday, or was going to be, ever after that.

It was a skirt, a beautiful pencil skirt with Millais’s Ophelia depicted in it. All around it. The piece of art seemed to be draped in the fabric, looking as clear and authentic as it could be.

“I know it’s a little…industrial to have it in a piece of garment and sport it fashionably when you talked about it so poetically, but I thought that, if it makes you so relaxed, it could be a good armor against bad days” he explained.

Jehan treasured it for the time that followed, becoming zir favorite piece of clothing. And zie used it in their first date. 

* * *

Enjolras was being ridiculous. And ruining his perfect plan. Courfeyrac’s plans _never_ got ruined, mind you. Maybe they had to make a detour and take a while longer, but they did not get ruined, not _ever_. And this one was going to come to fruition, even if it was the last thing he did.

“Courfeyrac, what is this?” Enjolras asked, cocking an eyebrow in such an exaggerated manner that people from the front of the Musain could see it.

“It’s a research” he simply answered, sitting across his best friend and beside his other best friend.

And it wasn't just so Combeferre could shield him in case everything went to shit, of course not.

“I didn't ask for a report from you, Courfeyrac” Enjolras hadn't even opened it and knew something was off.

That lovely bastard.

“Open it” Courfeyrac offered, yet burrowed closer to Combeferre.

Just in case.

Enjolras opened the folder, stared at the first page and scowled at it so hard that Courfeyrac started expecting the thing to spontaneously combust.

“So, what is it?” Feuilly asked, from the other corner of the table.

For some reason, the chatter had subdued and they were all paying attention to their leader and eir exchange with Courfeyrac, all of a sudden. Good, he needed backup. Considering they were going to be on his side, though. Which, they should, if you asked Courfeyrac. He had perfectly reasonable intentions.

“ _’James Potter: an underrated hero, a magical (pun intended) essay by Courfeyrac’_ ” Enjolras read it, word by word, yet it sounded less funny when ey said it.

Maybe because ey was considerably pissed off.

“Courfeyrac, we don’t have time for this!” ey closed the folder without even turning the page, the ass.

“Well, I think that the way people have of romanticizing more problematic and clearly abusive characters over the memory of someone as selfless and brave as James Potter has a lot to do with how we educate young ones nowadays” Courfeyrac sentenced “We have teenagers with ‘Always’ tattoos, many of them in reference to a toxic relationship, while preaching that James Potter was a just a bully. That’s not a world I wanna live in”

Enjolras sighed. Ey knew Courfeyrac’s points were valid, which they were, because Courfeyrac wholeheartedly believed in them and Enjolras agreed. But ey also knew the real intention behind it all. Which wasn't simply for debate.

“I know you believe that and I agree with your points,” Enjolras answered, as Courfeyrac was hoping “but I already told you” ey extended the folder to Courfeyrac “NO”

Courfeyrac then proceeded to the emergency back-up of his plan: the puppy face. Nobody could resist the puppy face. Except for Enjolras, apparently.

Ey remained stoic, unmoving, with the folder extended towards him, and Courfeyrac knew it was time for the last resort.

“Combefeeeeerreeee~” he turned to the friend beside him, who sighed so much Courfeyrac though he would deflate.

“Enjolras, at least read it” Combeferre pinched the bridge of his nose, as he always did when Courfeyrac and Enjolras were being irrational and desperating and made him re-consider his choice of bffs. Which no, Combeferre, too late for that.

“But, Combeferre…” Enjolras begun, even if it was useless.

Courfeyrac had this one in the bag.

“He spent time and effort in it, whatever the intention may be” Combeferre continued “You said you thought he believed in it, so it’s important to him. Just read it.”

And ey did. Ey read it and messaged Courfeyrac at 3 am with a simple “Ok”. Which was more than enough for him, really.

A week later, they all showed up with the jerseys. They were gorgeous, if you asked Courfeyrac, but maybe he was biased. They had the Gryffindor crest in the front, golden over dark red, with the name of the House. And, in the back, they read three different names, one for each: “Padfoot” for Courfeyrac, “Moony” for Combeferre and “Prongs” for Enjolras. They instantly became Courfeyrac’s favorites.

And Enjolras told him later, after all the remarks of their friends and the sighing, that ey kept the last page of his essay behind a picture of the three of them. And Courfeyrac smiled when he remembered it.

_But, overall, I think James Potter wasn't just a good friend and would have become a formidable parent. I consider that he was a brave young man who believed in a world he could see before them, see it more clearly than others did. And that’s why it was so easy to follow him, to believe in him, because he was sincerely convinced in changing the world. He died for that world, and for those he loved. He wholeheartedly believed in equality, in freedom and yes, he could have been a problematic teen in his youth, but he learned. He matured. And I’ll tell you, with all my sincerity, all jerseys aside, that I will follow you and believe in you as much as Sirius followed and believed in James. Because you’re not just my leader, you’re my best friend._

* * *

Everyone thought Cosette was over it. That the pain and the embarrassment were distant memories, because she owned her body. She created clothes, re-designed them, re-invented them, to do something new, something that didn’t punish her body for being bigger than the norm but embraced it. She had learned, with time and patience, that if a shop didn't have something for her, she didn't have to feel she had to apologize for it, she didn't have to feel ashamed in her own skin. Because it was _them_ who chose to ignore people her size or bigger. It was _their_ choice to alienate part of the community because they didn't want to use more fabric, or create different designs, or adapt anything at all.

But it still wasn't easy. It still bothered her sometimes, it still stung deep inside her when it happened. It still hurt that very morning, when she went to buy a pair of jeans and the shop assistants gave her a considerably smaller size than she had asked on purpose, to see her struggle and laugh at her when they opened the change-room’s curtain to see what was wrong, to later giggle when they closed the curtain back again, to let Cosette take the jeans off, her waist never even managing to pass through them.

When she exited the change-room, the small pair of jeans still on her hands, she was encountered with her friend’s rage.

“Do you think it’s funny?” Bahorel spat at them, visibly upset “Do you think it’s fucking clever of you, who actually should be wanting us to _pay_ for your deplorable shitty service, to _bully_ a customer?” she looked intimidating, with all that height of hers and her stance, her muscles flexing visibly underneath her shirt “Do you figure that it’s any good for your fucking business, to lose customers just because you like to feel better with your shitty selves by making other people feel bad with who they are?” her voice was rising and getting the attention of other customers, who stopped to listen.

The two assistants were frozen in their spots, shrinking more and more, as if scared that Bahorel would punch them in the face any moment. Cosette knew she wouldn't. But she didn't say so.

“Is there a problem?” the manager emerged from the back room with a considerable stench of cigarettes.

“Yes, you bet your sorry ass there is” Bahorel commanded, and the manager looked around, as if looking for the security personal “Is this how you run your business? By bullying customers into thinking they’re not good enough for your bad constructed garments, which don’t even follow a reasonable human pattern?”

The manager gulped, not knowing how to respond.

“Because if that’s the case, then we should apologize, because we were convinced we had entered a clothes shop, not a fucking torture chamber!” she turned to the shoppers, all frozen before her as if time had paused and they had stayed put with garments still on their hands or their arms still swallowed by racks filled with the same kind of shirt, over and over again “You should all know better than to make yourselves feel pressured into this kind of treatment. You worth more than all these shitty clothes. And my friend here is a beautiful woman whose body a place like this isn’t willing to celebrate.” She turned to the manager and glared “If you’re in the business of making money, I think you’re doing it _fucking wrong_.”

She took Cosette’s hand, who was so much shorter than her that she could drag her along like a kid. But Cosette stopped, right before they exited the shop, and let go of her hand. Bahorel, surprised, turned to her.

Cosette turned around and faced the manager one last time, then the assistants, and then the audience.

“My friend here sews beautiful garments, a million times better than these, and she will respect yourselves and your bodies, I can witness to that.” She smiled charmingly “Google ‘Scarlet Opinions’ and you’ll find her”

Then she turned back to Bahorel, crossed her arm through hers, and they both exited the shop.

That very week, Bahorel’s newly-formed website received 15 orders. And she met with all the customers to measure, ask questions and make them feel respected. It took time, but after she had finished all her orders, she met with Cosette.

“This is for you” she said, offering her a badly wrapped package.

Cosette smiled and opened it, to find one of the most gorgeous sundresses she’d ever seen. The skirt had blue fabric with white stars in it, whereas the top was red and sported the Wonder Woman logo.

“For your superhero collection” Bahorel smiled “And as a ‘thank you’ for getting my business started”

And, since that day, Cosette’s Wonder Woman sundress became her most valuable garment. 

* * *

Éponine had a lot of aspirations about what to do when she had a relatively decent job. One with a paycheck. She went through her last years of school waiting to turn 18 so she could find a job and run the fuck away from her parents.

Not that she hadn't ran away earlier, many times, but she wanted to be of age and do things properly. She was tired of faking IDs, lying about her parents’ occupation and engaging in activities of questionable legality to get money. She was not Montparnasse, she didn't do it because she wanted to.

And, back then, she had already planned out what she wanted to buy with her first paycheck. What she had always wanted, since she was 12, Montparnasse was 10 and he stole it from a guy who was considerably taller than he was. A leather jacket. Faux leather for her, though, because she cared about that.

But then, life happened. Minimum wage, sexist bosses, job changes, always starting up where she begun. Unable to continue her studies to get a degree so she could, at least, attempt a better pay or a steady position, if possible at all. Unable to own a home for herself and her siblings, needing to share with roommates and get them only on the weekend. Not that Grantaire and Jehan minded at all, but she would have liked to give Azelma and Gav a sanctuary more than a momentary weekend diversion.

And, of course, between taxes and debts, furniture and food, repairs and sanitary products, the jacket never came. She never forgot, though. But she never told, either. She didn't want to make those passive-aggressive comments some people did when they wanted their friends to get them something for their birthday. She didn't like that, nor she liked pity. She was going to get the damn jacket on her own terms, with her own means. She was determined.

In the meantime, she surreptitiously tried out her friends’ jackets, when she could. None of them fit her properly, because her body didn't help much. Her thin figure, flat chest and almost indiscernible hips made her look like a leather rectangle. She had fought with her image in the mirror so many times in her youth, that the last thing she wanted was to wear something that brought up again all those insecurities, rather than make her feel accomplished and badass. But it was personal, the leather jacket needed to happen, regardless of her unforgiving body.

One day, Cosette and Bahorel asked her and Musichetta for a favor. Bahorel owned a small independent design business, mostly ran online, called “Scarlet Opinions”, which she updated regularly with more designs. But she needed models. Cosette, who assisted her with some sewing and designing (and a machine of her own), provided her gracious plus size Latina glory, Bahorel represented the trans perspective and Musichetta was going to lend her luscious curves. They insisted that they needed Éponine too. Which, if you asked her, was insane, because her body wasn’t nearly as interesting as any of theirs. But she couldn't really say no.

They took her measurements and called a couple of weeks later, to schedule the photoshoot. They took the pictures, but made Éponine feel so relaxed, she even forgot what they were doing. Which was great, since she had been too nervous to begin with.

And then, they gave her something.

“As a form of payment” said Cosette, offering the package with hearts, rainbows and Care Bears all over it.

Éponine was about to protest, she hadn't done it for a reward, she did it because they asked. But Cosette, Bahorel and Musichetta looked at her intently, waiting for her reaction. So, Éponine opened it.

It was the most amazing faux leather jacket she had ever seen.  It was dark plum, with silver buttons, belts and studs, and the lining inside had a gray fabric with black wolf silhouettes all over it. She tried it on before anyone could say anything, turning to the mirror in awe. And it fit as if it had grown around her. It embraced her body and made her feel like it deserve it. Like it deserved good things like that jacket and not severe looks from her and embarrassment brought upon by silly strangers commenting on it.

They hugged her while she cried. She never wanted to let the jacket go. She never wanted to let her friends go. 

* * *

It was all torn and dreadful-looking. It had holes everywhere and paint stains with memories on them. The pockets had holes in their holes. The color had faded to the point in which you couldn't tell if had ever been denim at all. One leg of it had been cropped out in the base, because it had dried clay all over it, so now one leg was longer than the other. It fell from xyr shoulders all the time, because it had always been too big for xem. But Feuilly was never, EVER going to throw away xyr overall.

“Ginge, it’s going to end up vanishing on you” Bahorel commented, as she sew some buttons on Feuilly’s old blazer, which xe also insisted on keeping “Let me make you a new one, you can choose the fabric”

“I don’t need a new one, it’s just for work” Feuilly kept on sculpting the clay before xem “It’s fine”

“Not that I’m against the idea of you spontaneously ending up naked in the living room at any given time, I’d love the sight of that” Bahorel joked and Feuilly blushed so hard xe matched xyr hair “But seriously, I’d make a new one in a heartbeat”

“I know you would, ‘Rel, I just don’t like the idea of letting go of this one yet” xe answered.

“I understand you don’t like to throw away things that can still be used, but I wouldn't spend much money on a new one, it’s not a big deal” she insisted, being admirably able to sew buttons and make perfect arguments at the same time.

That fucking bastard.

“I’m ok, Bahorel” Feuilly sentenced “Really”

But xe wasn't. The overall didn't end up vanishing, but it got torn pretty bad. The little hole in the left leg got bigger and, one day, Feuilly mistakenly and drowsily put xyr leg through that one instead of the correct one. And the thing just broke in half before xyr eyes.

“FUCKING HELL!” xe shouted, completely forgetting that Bahorel was still sleeping beside xem.

“Wha…” she woke up suddenly, eyes still blurry with sleep and her short fiery red hair halfway over the shaved side of her head.

“It’s dead” Feuilly whispered “It died on me, ‘Rel”

She sat up and looked at the almost two halves of overall in xyr hands.

“It’s ok, love, I’ll take care of it” she smiled.

“It wasn't just that I don’t like to throw away stuff I can still use” xe sighed “I mean, I do that, because I've lived with so little resources for such a long time that I treasure everything I have…but this one” Feuilly closed xyr eyes “This one was important to me. With this one I started crafting and painting and sculpting…this one saw me become who I am. It was the last piece of garment I was given in the orphanage before I left, the only thing I keep from that life. And I don’t want to forget where I came from.”

Bahorel put her hands around xyr torso, surrounding xyr small, pale complexion with her big, tattoo-covered arms.

“I understand, Ginge” she kissed xyr cheek “But you still would have accomplished what you did and be the amazing self you are without a piece of garment” she laughed “And I know how much pieces of garment mean! But this is all you, love”

Feuilly tuned and kissed her deeply, the overall slowly falling to the ground so xe could put xyr hands on her hair, her neck, her back.

The next week, Feuilly entered their flat to find three things on their bed. One was a brand new overall, made of dark blue denim and equipped with tons of different-sized pockets to place brushes, tools, chalks, pencils and everything xe needed to carry with xem.

The other two were pillows, each one made of the paint-stained, barely blue fabric of xyr old overall. One for xem, the other one for Bahorel. Xe smiled. 

* * *

 Musichetta’s path towards loving her body as it was had been difficult. She hadn't yet met her friends (or her boys) when she had to go through most of it, which was even more painful. But she liked to think of it as her way of figuring it out by herself.

When they took away her right leg, she felt she was a portion of who she had been. She looked at herself in the mirror and felt empty. She had pain there to remind her of it, even when she wasn't looking. That first year was _so_ difficult.

She was angry. Angry at the man who had drank himself away to then irresponsibly drive and break her forever. Angry at the justice system that thought money could ever compensate a part of her she would never have again. Angry at the media that forgot people like her existed beyond documentaries and based-on-a-true-story movies. Angry at people who deemed her as “inspirational”, using her as an example when they felt bad for their lives, to remind themselves that things could be worse, they could be _her_. People who reduced her accomplishments to something she had done “despite being an amputee”.

She had bought them for Halloween. She had to work in the night shift of the Musain one Halloween night, and she decided that she was tired of hiding her prosthetic leg. She was tired of disguising it to prevent people from commenting on it, looking at her differently or looking down on her. She decided not only to use it but to make it the centerpiece of her entire costume. She was going to be the most badass steampunk queen of pirates that they had ever seen.

After that, the nickname stuck and she kept it, just like the steampunk bloomer shorts. She became more comfortable in her own skin, more accepting, more in love with the world and the possibilities it had for her. And the day she met Les Amis, the day she met Joly and Bossuet, she was wearing both, the nickname and the shorts. 

* * *

Combeferre didn't like it much when people called him a saint. He didn't like it when his co-workers said it was lucky they had him because otherwise, everything would be doomed. He didn't like it when his friends joked that Courfeyrac and Enjolras should wear tags with Combeferre’s information on them, in case they got lost. For two reasons.

The first one was that, as a human being capable of making mistakes and actually failing at things, it put an enormous pressure on Combeferre to be the “responsible one”. He felt that, sometimes, people underestimated the things he worried about because “he was Combeferre, he could do everything”. And he didn't. Sometimes, he fucked shit up. But he felt that, if he talked about it, they’d just say he’d figure it out eventually, because after all, “he was Combeferre”.

The second reason was that, when it came to his friends, it resulted in them underestimating themselves and each other. Enjolras was a responsible person and ey was perfectly capable of eating and getting dressed properly for the weather and cooking a decent meal. Courfeyac was a reasonable person and he was capable of addressing authorities with decorum, knowing when to stop drinking and engaging in relationships with people who weren't toxic to him. And it bothered him that, when the joke got too persistent, Enjolras and Courfeyrac started believing that they were no good without Combeferre. And that was something he couldn't allow.

So, one day, they talked about it. He started just disclosing his second reason, with all of his friends, because he wanted them to understand how damaging it could be if they started believing their own joke. At first they dismissed it, but it was clear by Courfeyrac’s and Enjolras’s expression that it was a big deal to them.

It got emotional. He didn't intend it to, but it did. Everyone started disclosing their views and their insecurities and looking apologetically at Combeferre, as if he had been scolding them. Which wasn't at all his intention. He sighed.

“You look at me as if I was perfect and you have no idea how much it _hurts_ ” he whispered, thinking nobody had heard him.

But they all had. The silence was deafening and Combeferre was worried that they would get mad. That they would think he looked down on them, that he didn't trust them enough to tell them how he really felt, that he had been pretending that everything was fine when it wasn't.

He didn't realize that he was shaking until he felt Enjolras’s and Courfeyrac’s hands on the bundle that his had become.

“We know, ‘Ferre” Enjolras said “We’re your friends, we don’t want to hurt you”

“Just call us out on our shit” Courfeyrac smiled “And we’ll call you out on yours, deal?”

Combeferre smiled as well and looked up. They were all staring at him, all worried for him. They were there for him, as he had been for them.

“Deal” he answered, and received the strongest ‘sandwich hug’, as Courfeyrac called them, he had ever had.

The sweater was from all of them. He got it after the dreadful internship examinations. He hadn't spoken about how stressed out he was. But he knew they noticed. He saw it in the extremely varied cups of tea Enjolras prepared for him. In the meals filled with vitamins that Joly cooked. In the jokes Bossuet told him to make him relax. In the back rubs he got from Grantaire in between meetings (which Enjolras was _NOT_ jealous of, as ey clearly told him afterwards). In the chocolate bars Éponine gave him every morning when they saw each other on the way to work. In the extra foam Musichetta put in his lattes. In the portable lamp Feuilly repaired for him and gave him. In the meticulously ironed suits Bahorel helped him with when he didn't have time to take care of them himself. In the movie-pauses Jehan and Courfeyrac made him take to relax. In the delicious cookies Cosette baked for him to take to work. In how Marius picked him up from work with his car, even if his job was all the way across town. And he saw it in the sweater that was waiting for him when he got back home the day the internship ended, navy blue and with small moths in various colors displayed all over it. 

* * *

Joly knitted when he was nervous. He had picked up the habit from his mom, and ever since he could remember, he used yarn to try to silence his anxieties. That’s how the scarf had come to life.

“I don’t know what to do with it” Joly sighed, looking at it.

It was immense. The longest scarf he had ever seen. It was orange, his favorite color, and it was way too long for one person’s neck, maybe even for two.

At first, Joly thought of using it for his hair. Joly had massive black curls, with a lot of volume, something he had also inherited from his Brazilian mother, along with his complexion and eyes. Bossuet said that he had so much hair because he himself had none, and that way they could know for sure they were meant to be. Still, the scarf wrapping his hair looked like he had a covered birdcage on his head.

He then contemplated giving it to Cosette, maybe she could use it as a toy for her kitten. Perhaps little Figaro would like somewhere to climb and something to train his little paws with. But Joly liked the scarf too much to let it die in hands of a cat.

Yes, it was uselessly long, but it was his and he liked it. It had helped him through the portion of the week he had spent alone, while Musichetta and Bossuet traveled to see Bossuet’s parents. Joly wasn't able to tag along, because of his job in the hospital. One of his kids had a surgery that week, and what kind of pediatrician would Joly be if he left him alone on that one. Luc didn't know his surgeon and Joly had been there for him every step of the way. He was not going to leave him alone, even if that meant parting with Bossuet and ‘Chetta for a week (and probably turning into a disrespectful workaholic in Bossuet’s parents’ eyes).   

He settled the scarf on the living room and laid over it, his vast curls all over the (very well disinfected) floor. He didn't even hear the door.

“Oh my god what happened?!?!” Bossuet’s alarm brought Joly back to reality.

“Are you ok?!” Musichetta ran to him and kneeled beside him on the floor “Did something happen?!”

Joly sat up, dazed. He didn't understand why they were so exalted. He didn't understand why they were there in the first place. It was barely Thursday.

“What are you two doing here?” Joly asked “You were to stay until Sunday”

Bossuet knelt beside Musichetta and started inspecting Joly’s body for wounds and touching his forehead to know if he was feverish.

“We returned earlier, to be with you” Musichetta cocked an eyebrow “Are you sure you’re alright, Jol?”

“I’m fine, I just…” he looked at the scarf underneath him “I just got carried away with the knitting and now I don’t know what to do with this”

Musichetta and Bossuet understood instantly why the scarf was so long. They knew how much Joly knitted when nervous and they saw clearly how, despite how many times he had said everything was ok, the surgery stressed Joly, and both of them being gone made his anxiety worse.

“You should have told us, love” Bossuet took him in his arms “That you needed us here”

“But, you had to go, your parents…” Joly began.

“They understand” he smiled “They told us we should come back”

“And they said they’re proud of your work” Musichetta added, playing with his curls “And so are we”

It was cold on the floor, so they used the scarf that was displayed all over it. And yes, it was too big for one person and even for two. But it was perfect for three. 

* * *

She had gone through tough shit in her short life. And her body had suffered along.

Body dysmorphia. Gender dysphoria. Eating disorders. Depression.

She had been deemed as an “intimidatingly huge dude” ever since she hit puberty. But she was a girl. She had always identified as a girl.

And people thought it had been easier for her, because bullies didn't dare come close to her, since she looked like she could break their neck in two. They thought that, since nobody picked on her, she had an easy path towards self-acceptance and transitioning. Bullshit.

Because maybe teenagers didn't dare comment on her accessories, but media did. Media showed girls who were nothing like her. Cis girls. White girls. Thin girls. Everything she was not.

And the feminist group in her fucking college didn't believe in integrating her, because they were a trans-exclusionary group. And the boys she dated got disinterested when she explained that she wasn't a gay boy in drag, she was a _woman_. And tv showed big muscular girls as punch lines of jokes and transgender women as decoy for men to laugh about after a night in Vegas had gone wrong. She felt all alone.

She looked so strong, but she felt so weak.

She started eating considerably less, she didn't care about her body. Her body was her enemy. She felt she could be better without it. She stopped exercising, even if she loved it, because guys didn't want her near them in boxing classes and girls were scared she wouldn't be able to control her strength. Bahorel was She-Hulk to them.

It was a skirt what made the difference. Her mom’s.

“Sweetie, I have something for you” her mom said, and entered her room with a bag.

Her mother was so small and frail-looking, with her soft voice and her warm hands. But she was strong. Stronger than Bahorel herself.

“I want to give this to you” she said, passing the bag to her “It was mine when I was your age and I made some alterations so it fits you properly and also, so it doesn't look as old-fashioned as me” she giggled.

It was a red tartan-patterned skirt, with two black belts and pleated beautifully. It looked more punk rock than Bahorel had ever guessed her mom could be. She laughed, she laughed so much she started crying.

“I love it, mom” Bahorel said in between sobs, and her mom held her for what felt like an eternity.

“If you want, you can help me choose from my old dresses which ones you’d like and we can sew them together” she offered, and Bahorel nodded eagerly.

Every afternoon since that day, Bahorel ran to get together with her mom and sew. First, they went through her mom’s clothes from the 70s, then they started buying fabric and making their own stuff. Bahorel’s mom always waited her with her dinner prepared and, little by little, Bahorel started changing her life. She started consulting specialists. She started going to the doctors. She started going to therapy. She started her trasnsition. She started welcoming herself to the world.

Bahorel was She-Hulk. And she loved it. 

* * *

 

Bossuet had it on the afternoon he met Joly. He was invited to his cousin’s wedding and decided he would be the best dressed individual on the list. He rented the suit, but the top hat, he bought. Because top hats were fancy. Weddings were fancy. It made sense.

What didn't make sense, though, were the directions written on that piece of paper. For the life of him, he couldn't find his way through the city or identify the blurred instructions written on that post it. He put it higher over his head, trying to see it through the light of the sun, maybe that way something would seem clearer.

Except that wind was merciless that time of the year.

The paper flew away, just like his top hat, and ran from him down the street and towards the next block. Bossuet ran after it, determined to find the hat that represented the last remaining of his savings.

He found it on the hands of a young man with the most beautiful curly hair Bossuet had ever seen. He never got to the wedding, he was busy making a best friend. And, maybe, falling in love, but Joly wasn't to know that yet.

When they met Musichetta, they were still best friends. And he was still wearing the top hat. It had been part of a dare, but Musichetta laughed beautifully and told him that it was great to find a gentleman dressed for the occasion, since she was a Queen. She gave him her number. Joly excused himself before he could respond to her, saying he felt indisposed. He urged him to ask her out. Bossuet felt very happy that she was interested. And incredibly sad that Joly wasn't.

He wore it the day they decided to ask him. After months of dating, they both found themselves incomplete without Joly. They both loved him. They loved him _so much_. But it wasn't enough, not if he didn't love them back.

He was crying when they got to him. Bossuet had never seen him cry like that, and knew in that moment that he would gladly spend the rest of his life preventing that from happening again. Joly said he was sorry a million times. He was sorry because he loved them both and didn't know what to do, sorry because they might think him a horrible friend, sorry because he was ruining everything. He was shaking, gasping for air, and Bossuet had never been so scared in his life.

Musichetta sat beside him and embraced him. She caressed his beautiful hair and repeated that it was ok, that they loved him too, that everything was going to be alright. She looked at Bossuet and he immediately understood. He sat on his other side, embracing them both, kissing his cheek, his eyes, his brow. His hat fell on the floor and they stayed like that until everyone’s heartbeats steadied, until they felt like one.

And Bossuet knew that it was never going to split again. 

* * *

Marius didn't know how to proceed anymore. He had lost control of the situation a long time ago, maybe when he grabbed the handkerchief in the first place. Maybe back when he first saw her, sitting on that bench, surrounded by notes and highlighters.

Cosette had told him that they had been crossing paths for a couple of years before they officially met, which was terrible, because that meant Marius had misspent 1 year and 6 months not looking at her. Ok, now, that sounded creepy. That was the kind of comments Courf said he had to watch how to word. What he meant was, how hadn't he noticed?

And he unknowingly asked that out loud. She said she wasn't the kind of girl to catch guys’ attention in a positive way. She said she was used to it. She said it didn't matter. She didn't look at him when she said that. Marius didn't know what to say.

And, again, he actually said it out loud. Cosette laughed, and he wished he could bottle up the sound and listen to it again. Alright, no, that was not how to put it. Courf Alarm.

She said it was ok. She said she didn't need boys’ attention to find her own worth. She said she wasn't meant to fulfill other people’s expectations. She said she had walked a long path to understand that. Marius thought she was amazing.

He said it out loud.

She smiled.

He remembered the handkerchief when he was preparing for their first date. The handkerchief he had picked up from the bench one day she left, the one with the initials UF. He called her Ursule for 6 months because of that. She told him she was called Cosette, but her actual name was Euphrasie. Which was a gorgeous name. And which actually rhymed with Pontmercy. If they got married and she took his last name as well as hers, would she find the rhyme endearing or annoying? Nope, Courf Alarm.

But what was he to do with it? Give it back and admit he had kept it for so long? She might have noticed it had been missing. Keep it forever? That was a definite Courf Alarm. He sighed and grabbed it.

It eventually turned into a joke. Eventually. It was a bit creepy to Cosette that he had it in the first place, especially because it was her dad’s (Courf would never let that go) but she also understood it was his only lead towards her. Towards finding her again. He had evidently read a lot of books, and she could tell.

In their first anniversary, she gave him a handkerchief. It had his initials in it. 

* * *

 

Enjolras knew ey was pushing some (unnecessary) gendered outfit boundaries with eir getup. And that was the point. Ey had a crop top with a Rousseau quote on it ( _L'homme est né libre et partout il est dans les fers_ ), which left eir tattoo completely visible, the _liberté_ tattoo on eir ribs, written in red over eir pale skin, which matched the _égalité_ tattoo Combeferre had in his forearm, written in white over his dark skin, and Courfeyrac’s _fraternité_ tattoo, in his inner bicep, and written in blue over his olive skin. Ey was also wearing red jean shorts and brown ankle booties. Ey had decided not to tie eir long hair though, they were going to a picnic, after all, and the weather was nice.

Grantaire was the first one to comment on it when ey arrived. Of course he was.

“The amount of hipster in you is blinding me” he covered his eyes, exaggerating, and some of them laughed.

Enjolras knew he meant no harm, but it still bothered em a bit. Ey wasn't an expert when it came to romantic affairs, but ey assumed it wasn't a good thing when your crush said that about your outfit. But Enjolras hadn't dressed for Grantaire. It was bigger than them all. 

Grantaire spent the afternoon in the park drawing their friends. Cosette was putting some flowers in eir hair when ey heard Grantaire’s comment on Jehan, who he was sketching.

“You’re so…ethereal, Jehan” he commented “You look like fae folk come to life when you step in a garden”

Jehan just smiled and Courfeyrac gravitated towards Grantaire, to give him a fake warning.

“Has he drawn you yet, mi sol?” she asked.

Cosette had nicknames for some of them in Spanish, her native language, and Enjolras’s was “my sun”. She started calling em that because of a lullaby in which the words appeared, and the first time she sang it to Enjolras, they had cried. Enjolras’s biological mother, which ey had never known, had been Latina and worked in the same maquiladora as Cosette’s mother. Enjolras found out that ey had been the result of an affair of eir father’s and tracked eir biological mother once ey had left the house to never go back. Eir mother, like Cosette’s, had fallen ill in the workplace and died, months after having delivered Enjolras. Her family didn't want anything with em, knowing who eir father was. Ey couldn't blame them.

Cosette sang the lullaby some time after they met, when Enjolras couldn't sleep, and said eir mother might have probably sang it to em too, once. That was how Les Amis met Cosette (who had coincidentally been Marius’s Ursule, because of course, Pontmercy).  

“No, but it’s ok” Enjolras sighed “I’ve never been easy to draw”

Cosette laughed.

“I bet he’s got the drawing of you very well-practiced” she added.

“It’s ok, not all of us can have a love story like yours” ey smirked “With handkerchiefs and vast amounts of Pontmercying”

She playfully punched eir shoulder and they laughed so much ey forgot all about the drawings.

Until ey found emself face to face with Grantaire, that is. Under a tree. Alone. Because _Courfeyrac_.  

Ey saw Courfeyrac had thrown the beach ball purposefully very far. Ey knew it. Yet there was nothing Enjolras could do but see it eventually collide with Grantaire and his sketchbook while Enjolras uselessly ran towards it.

“I’m _so_ sorry” Enjolras said, looking back to find that that Courfeyrac had magically vanished.

The traitor.

“It’s ok, no harm done” Grantaire ripped the page off the sketchbook and threw it in a plastic bag with other discarded pages.

“No! What are you doing?!” Enjolras threw emself to the ground beside Grantaire and fished the drawing out of the bag “It was almost done!” ey said, looking at the incredibly well achieved portrait of Bossuet, who was laughing with Feuilly and Joly farther away.

“Nah, it could use some work” Grantaire started sketching again, the pencil caressing the page with confident strokes.

Enjolras, upon seeing his concentration, decided not to insist.

“Did you draw them all yet?” ey asked, staring intently at Bossuet’s smile in the page in eir hands.

Ey could see, from the corner of eir eye, that Grantaire had turned to em but ey didn’t turn back.

“ _Them_?” Grantaire asked.

“Our friends” Enjolras turned to him then and saw the curiosity in his eyes.

His eyes, which were quite hypnotizing when you stared at them for a while.

“And what about you?” Grantaire asked “Aren’t you my friend?”

“I’m complicated” Enjolras answered before thinking it through, and Grantaire’s laugh was sincere.

Not mocking or with disdain. Just pure, sincere laughter. The one he shared with Joly, Bossuet, Bahorel or Courfeyrac. Never with em.

“No kidding” he commented.

Enjolras didn’t speak and started considering whether or not to leave and let him work in peace.

“Why do you think so, though?” Grantaire’s hands left the sketchbook and the pencil down on the grass and his attention was entirely on Enjolras.

Ey sighed.

“It doesn't matter, it’s a long story” Enjolras left Bossuet’s drawing down and tried to leave, but Grantaire’s piercing gaze kept em in place.

“It does matter” Grantaire said “It clearly matters to you”

Enjolras hugged eir legs and looked to eir friends, playing and laughing in the distance.

“The first time someone had to draw me, it didn't go too well” Enjolras begun “My father commissioned a painting of the family, a portrait”

Grantaire coked an eyebrow.

“I know. It was as ridiculous as it sounds” ey sighed “Anyway, after posing for hours, he inspected the sketch and asked the artist if he could _please_ make me look more like a boy. He apologized profusely about it, as if it was something I had done wrong, and insisted on it. I was 12”

Enjolras made a pause but Grantaire didn't comment. The only noticeable change were his fists, clenching the grass until his knuckles turned white.

“The artist said the entire sketch had to be re-done for that to happen and my father then opted for scraping my drawing altogether. He took me out of the portrait.”  

Grantaire’s eyes darkened and Enjolras avoided them. Ey didn't want to face him just yet.

“When I grew up, I realized it was more than just how feminine I looked” Enjolras outstretched eir legs “I started finding who I was, how I wanted to identify myself and then I found out about my biological mother” ey closed eir eyes “Cosette had a photo of her and her mother together and that was when I figured it out. Except for the hair, I looked a lot like her. The color of my skin, my eyes, my features, my body. I had more of her than I ever had of my father. And they both knew, they noticed. The portrait was a clear rendition of me not belonging, of me looking like _her_.” Ey turned to Grantaire then “It took time for me to get used to photos, to get used to the mirror, to get used to seeing myself and not feeling alone. Because I didn't belong with him and I couldn't be with her. And portraits…”

“I understand” Grantaire said, his fists unclenching “And you _are_ complicated to draw, but it has nothing to do with that”

Enjolras looked at him, bewildered.

“You are so _alive_ , Enjolras” his hand reached out to em but didn't touch em, they were so close and yet not enough “You’re so filled with energy and love for life and faith in the future and it’s all so clear in you when you talk that it feels like I can _grasp it_ …but it’s so difficult to capture.” He sighed “I pay attention to your speeches, I listen because I want to understand, I want to grasp that part of you that escapes me, but I’m always one step behind…and it makes me want to keep trying, to keep asking questions, to keep listening” he smiled “It might seem odd, but it makes me fall for you all over again each time”

There was silence of words. Because the wind kept blowing, making the leaves whisper sounds into the air. Because their friends kept laughing and singing, and their life was still palpable in the atmosphere. Because the sounds of dogs barking in the distance and kids playing together reminded em that there was more people than just them there. But the words between them, those were missing.

Enjolras was the one who moved closer. The one who kissed first. Ey didn't want words, not yet. They had gone through so many of them in the past. They were going to go through so many of them in the future.

Grantaire made a portrait of em that day, with the Rousseau shirt, the red shorts, even the flowers Cosette had placed in eir hair, which were falling by the time they stopped kissing. Enjolras treasured it all. 

**Author's Note:**

> * There's an attempt at a free indirect style here, so I tried the parts to seem narrated differently (more poetic for Jehan more informal for Courfeyrac, shorter sentences for Bahorel, longer sentences for Cosette, etc.) I hope I achieved some of that and that the transition didn't seem annoying.  
> *The "Where the Wild Things Are" tshirt was an inspiration of a drawing I made a long time ago [of Enjolras and Grantaire arguing](http://starberry-cupcake.tumblr.com/post/81405949508/where-the-wild-rs-are)  
> *[This](https://www.etsy.com/es/listing/214752431/ophelia-hamlet-skirt-art-history-ophelia?ref=shop_home_active_2) is Jehan's Ophelia skirt  
> *Cosette's experiences as a plus size Latina, as I said in the other fic, are totally and unashamedly based on my own (to the point that the whole thing with the assistants giving her smaller jeans and laughing actually happened to me). If something sounded disrespectful to you, I apologize, I made it as close to my experience as possible.  
> *Éponine's insecurities with her body are better explained in the other fic and, again, if something read as disrespectful, please let me know  
> *Cohé Paroix is my current Joly faceclaim[and this](https://www.behance.net/gallery/11568543/Coh-Wild-Away) is how his massive hair looks  
> *The lullaby Cosette sings to Enjolras is "Arrorró", which many people from Latin America and Spain had listened as babies, including myself  
> * I included some fanon ideas that are not mine: the triumvirate's tattoos, the tags of "return to Combeferre" and Courfeyrac's and Enjolras's weaknesses (which I took to deny rather than to use) and the Euphrasie Pontmercy joke.  
> *Bahorel's and Musichetta's experiences are not my own. I did my research before writing but I am capable of being completely wrong and, if so, please let me know. I don't intend to disrespect anyone.  
> *This is un-beta'ed and finished very late at night/early in the morning, so all mistakes are mine  
> *Happy Birthday, Stella, I hope you liked it!  
> *Thank you all for reading, you're the best.


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